


i’ve got a hundred thrown out speeches i almost said to you

by myillusionsgone



Series: said, "i'm fine," but it wasn't true [8]
Category: Fairy Tail
Genre: F/M, Hanahaki Disease, ft some headcanons you can tear from my cold dead hands, it's about the quiet longing, this is rarepair heaven
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-30
Updated: 2020-03-30
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:21:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23395450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/myillusionsgone/pseuds/myillusionsgone
Summary: Time has never been on their side, but they can create moments for themselves. — Goldmine
Relationships: Porlyusica/Goldmine
Series: said, "i'm fine," but it wasn't true [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1623238
Comments: 1
Kudos: 2





	i’ve got a hundred thrown out speeches i almost said to you

He found her in the infirmary as dusk settled, scrubbing her hands under ice cold water. The beds were empty, though there was still warmth clinging to some of them as he approached. By the time he was sitting on one of the beds and had taken off his sunglasses, she had turned around and was staring him down, crimson eyes meeting scarlet ones for a moment.

Earlier this day, he had figured that he would rather tear off his own arm than to congratulate  _ Makarov _ for his victory. In the same instant, he had decided that he would see if Bob was free so the two of them could visit their  _ other _ old teammate together, maybe bring along some wine and get her to  _ finally _ relax; he had seen the injuries some fairies had had when they had been carried off to the infirmary and none of them would have even made it back to the stands, had they not been healed by Porlyusica.

Then the dragon had happened, and this plan had flown out of the window. Bob had excused himself earlier, right after the debriefing by officials working for the crown, and Goldmine had had to see to his own mages before he could make his way to the infirmary. The only upside to this mess of a day was that every single mage was far too tired to stir up any trouble tonight. 

She inhaled as she turned her head to study the side of his face, her gaze almost burning a hole into his skull. “You didn't meditate today,” she stated simply, but there was the familiar twinge of disapproval in her voice and he had to grin. The more things had changed, the more she had stayed the same. The more  **they** had stayed the same.

“Things were a little too busy to find peace and serenity,” he replied. He never had figured out how she had been able to tell whether or not he had taken the time to seek communication with the souls that he harboured, and it was not as if she would ever let him know what his tell was. “I'll do it when I get back to the inn. Did you have time for tea today?”

There was comfort in the familiarity of their conversation, and he almost felt drowsy. The infirmary was unfamiliar to him, but it did not feel like it. The smells were familiar, the herbal potions, the sting of antiseptica, the saltiness of the ointment. Almost sixty years and although nothing was still the way it used to be, he would not be able to tell any difference from the little room back in Magnolia where she had first patched him up if he were to close his eyes.

She scoffed softly. “I don't know if you noticed, but there were dragons and I was kind of busy treating other people's injuries . . . what a day,” she muttered as she turned back towards the sink, splashing water into her face.

He snorted as he patted down his jacket, searching for his pipe before he recalled that he had left it at the inn. “What a week,” he agreed as he raised an eyebrow at her. For the past years, they had found the time to chat between the days of the games, but this year . . . this year, everything had been different, and it was difficult not to somehow blame Makarov for this. He had come back with the stars of his guild, and as always, he had made a mess out of everything.

“ _ Dragons _ ,” she spat as she dried off her face and leaned against the table, shaking her head. “As if this had not been terrible enough already . . . I cannot express how glad I am to see you unharmed, Goldmine.”

He smiled quietly as he began to clean his glasses for the first time since the sky had been ripped open and dragons had poured out. “Likewise,” he replied. “I don’t know what I’d done otherwise.”

This was a lie and as always, it tasted bitter, much like poison would. Usually, his lies tasted different — like cold coffee, bitter and full of regret. But just as it  _ felt _ different to lie to her, it had a different flavour as well. He did not need the tremble of ancient anger reverberated through his entire being to know that he would have been hard-pressed to stay in control of himself, had she come to harm. 

He could easily justify this to himself — among the members of their old team, she had been least equipped to come face-to-face with a dragon. He had not had to worry about Bob as he was far more powerful than most would give him credit for, and both Makarov and Yajima were long dead to him. It made it a logical conclusion to worry about the healer, to check up on her as soon as he was certain that all members of his guild were accounted for. Still, he was glad to be here now, sitting shoulder-on-shoulder with Porlyusica and allowing himself to breathe.

She rose to her feet and reached for his face with a glowing hand. “You aren't  _ entirely _ unharmed, however,” she said as her tongue clicked against teeth. “Here, let me get that.”

He moved out of her reach, catching her wrist and shaking his head. “Don't bother, Sica,” he said as he tugged her down again, patting the empty spot next to him. “You don't have to waste what precious energy you have left like this.”

“I  _ want _ to,” she said quietly and he sighed as he let go of her wrist and let her run the tip of her thumb over the gash on his face. It would have healed on his own before dawn, but — arguing with her had never been his strength. “Can I get you anything?” she asked as her hand dropped back into her lap. “Bandages, ointment . . . anything you need for your guild?”

He was quiet for a moment, wondering if he wanted to ask her for this favour. Though he was neither Makarov nor Bob, he kept his secrets close to his chest, preferring not to let them slip. However, as embarrassing as it was to ask her for this, the idea that he might end up coughing up flowers in front of his entire guild was even more uncomfortable for him. “Yes, there is actually something I need,” he said calmly — she was, after all, both his friend and a healer, there was no judgement he had to fear from her. “I ran out of tea this morning, and I'd rather not puke flowers in front of everyone.”

“ _ Ah _ ,” she said softly as she walked towards the medicine cabinet. “And here I was wondering if Bob has a new perfume. Gardenias, yes?”

He should not be surprised, neither by the fact that she had smelled it nor by the fact that she was calm as always about this. Still, it stung — just a tiny little bit. The transition from  _ Sica-the-friend _ to  _ Porlyusica-the-healer _ was always smooth, and while he had never liked it, he had never before actually  _ minded _ it. 

Bob had once voiced the theory that it was because there was no Flower Curse in her homeland that she was so . . . clinical about this, treating it as an ailment of the body rather than a wound of the soul. And perhaps, he should be grateful for this because it meant that she did not ask him any questions and instead busied herself across the room, plucking glasses holding herbs from the shelf to mix the tea. Perhaps he should be happy that she was not looking at him with her dark eyes, searching his face for something that would tell her why he was suffering from this affliction.

Still, he knew her well enough to know with utmost certainty that she would not ask him.

“Yeah,” he muttered as he leaned back and rested his head on the bed he was sitting on, closing his eyes for a moment. Above the typical infirmary smells and the smells of too many strangers that had drowned out almost everything else, there was the fresh smell of crushed herbs and, of course, the scent of summery woods and salty breezes he had come to know as  _ hers _ . “They are pretty, I guess.”

She halted for a moment and again, he felt her gaze upon his face. “Not if they are killing you,” she responded quietly before she chopped the thyme into tiny bits. “No death is beautiful.”

He laughed quietly and inside his chest, his souls rumbled. They had always liked both her no-nonsense attitude and the softness she was hiding in the wrinkles of her cloak like a magician would hide a pigeon. “It isn't  _ killing _ me, Sica,” he responded. “ _ You _ know I heal fast so you don't have to worry about that, and  _ I _ know you’d be quite cross with me if I dared to die on you.”

Sighing as she handed him the tea, she adjusted his hat. “There aren't many people left who let me fuss over them,” she said kindly, “so let me have this. Please.”

Sitting up straight, he dropped the tea to his side and reached for her hand to squeeze it gently. “I'll stick around for a while longer,” he promised earnestly. “No getting rid of me.”

**Author's Note:**

> This is for my friends who let me scream to them about rarepairs and who thus support my brand.


End file.
